Accountability
by robot iconography
Summary: In the wake of the events of the first movie, Pepper deals with the shift in Tony's attitude towards her. Tony/Pepper - mostly - and Pepper/other - slightly
1. Don't Forget Your Whip

_Author's Notes: I wrote the bulk of this several weeks before the second movie was released, and have been trying to fine-tune it ever since then. I will probably follow this up with a second story, but it also stands on its own, so don't be afraid of the WIP monster. ;)_

**Accountability**

**1. Don't Forget Your Whip**

To say that work has been chaotic recently would be an understatement.

The number of people I've been required to 'deflect and absorb' has increased exponentially since Tony's little announcement. Every branch of the military wants to debrief, the board insists upon regular updates every time my boss so much as sneezes, and all of the section management teams have increasingly pressing requests—mostly of the _what are we supposed to do now that we're not building bombs anymore?_ variety.

There haven't been any official meetings on the subject, but I spend most of my time logging all of the e-mails and phone calls and drop-bys; I've set up a sort of command central in Tony's office, where I meet almost daily with almost everyone to _almost_ assure them that everything is, in the words of our CEO, entirely copacetic. They almost believe me.

Tony, meanwhile, spends most of _his_ time tinkering with the suit, when he isn't lifting weights (or bragging about same). I'm used to having to cover when he becomes immersed in a project to the exclusion of all else—although the fact that the project entails saving the world is a bit ambitious, even for the legendary Tony Stark.

There is one task, however, that cannot be put off any longer. While on a seemingly endless conference call with the Tokyo office, I take a moment to fire off a quick text message to my boss:

_Urgent: personal expense review is now THREE MONTHS behind schedule. Please advise._

Obadiah Stane was less than transparent in regards to his personal use of the company's treasure chest; we were able to keep it out of the papers, but the board of directors was another matter. Mercifully, even they don't know the full extent of it—thanks in part to some swift records-doctoring, courtesy of SHIELD.

In the months since Stane's death, the watchword at Stark Industries has become 'accountability,' a term that only occasionally appears in the vocabulary of our fearless leader.

The board demanded a complete account of the CEO's not inconsiderable corporate expenses, and has stipulated that we file monthly expense reports. It's the kind of thing I could handle on my own, were it not for the fact that Tony insists on using his personal and corporate credit cards indiscriminately, opting for a "shoot 'em all and let Pepper sort 'em out" strategy. Even if I were entirely capable of distinguishing between his business-related clubbing and jetsetting and his recreational clubbing and jetsetting (and contrary to popular belief, I'm not privy to every single move he makes while he's out on the town), I still need him to sign off on the reports in the end.

Tony must be taking a break from tinkering, because a response to my text comes almost immediately.

_Not necessary. You have signing authority & I trust you implicitly._

Flattering, but not particularly helpful, since what the board is looking for is Tony's accountability, not mine.

Tony spends the company's money as though it were his own (which makes sense, considering that for the most part it essentially is) but he just as frequently pays out of pocket for expenses that could be legitimately written off. Easier for him, but a lot more work for me. Par for the course.

I click briefly through my calendar, then Tony's calendar, scrolling around for corresponding blank spaces. Finding one, I reply:

_You have an opening Wednesday afternoon at 1:00. I'll schedule a meeting at the office. Let me know if you need help remembering where you keep your ties._

The rejoinder is typical:

_Clearly this is all a ruse to get me alone and exert your feminine wiles, in which case I have an opening tonight, 9 pm. Bring champagne & I will schedule a meeting in the hot tub. Please note swimsuit is optional._

Tony's default setting is autosleaze. I've become relatively skilled at deflecting it, and even more skilled at not taking it personally. After all, it _isn't_ personal: he has an incredibly entitled worldview—lord and master of all he surveys—and women tend to be included in that. Like his cars and his clothes, women are part of the furniture of his life. He acquires them with the same absent consumerism he applies to artwork or architecture. And, like his art collection and his real estate holdings, he leaves me the dirty work of disposing of the ones he's finished with.

At least, that's how it used to be.

I tap out a carefully-worded response:

_I will be there at 7:00. No champagne. Dinner would be appreciated. This counts as overtime._

In spite of all the flirting, I don't think Tony had ever seriously considered me as a potential conquest; strange as it may sound, I honestly believe he'd always thought of me in the same category as his robots or JARVIS—an extension of himself, as intrinsic as his own right hand. (Not exactly flattering, since I'm sure I only know the half of what that particular hand gets up to.) But that night on the rooftop changed things—brought me into focus for him in a new way.

In public, it's still 'Mr. Stark' and 'Ms. Potts,' business as usual. To the world at large, I'm still a ruthlessly efficient executive assistant, and he's still a mythical, god-like being largely composed of sex, drugs, and rock n' roll. But when we're alone… he baits me.

He's always had an inexorable physicality about him, but lately he spends a lot of time sitting or standing slightly too close; brushing against me unnecessarily, making sure our hands touch whenever objects are passed between us. Even the way he watches me is a silent challenge, leaving me feeling slightly scorched by the dark intensity of his gaze. Our conversations have changed, too: he keeps trying to charm and disarm by being more vulnerable, less imperious, more personal. Warmer.

He's trying to lure me into… well, that's the problem: I'm not sure what he's looking for. An admission of attraction? A hopeless declaration of long-unrequited love? A quick roll in the hay? It's classic Tony—his actions and motives appear relatively transparent, but in reality, he never gives himself away, never exposes his own weakness. He only tricks his opponents into revealing theirs, then uses it against them. It's one of the essential truths about his character: long before he had the armoured suit, he was already adept at wearing a variety of masks.

Initially, I figured whatever issue he was having was just temporary, and entirely located in the trouble caused by that outlandish dress. Me, of all people! I've never made a secret of the fact that I have no respect for girls who parade themselves in front of their male colleagues—who use pure sex appeal to succeed in the professional world, reinforcing the stereotype that female personal assistants are nothing more than arm candy. I've done everything I possibly can to avoid attracting that kind of attention from Tony, to stay off his radar, because I like my job and I want to preserve the status quo. And now—all because of a single piece of uncharacteristic, birthday-anxiety-induced, silk charmeuse open-backed fishtail-trained _folly!—_it seems I am firmly in his sights.

I _love_ that dress. Now I don't know if I can ever wear it again without spontaneously combusting from sheer embarrassment.

It didn't help that I'd been drinking, or that he'd been drinking, or that the effortless way he coaxed me onto the dance floor reminded me of the _old_ Tony Stark, the one whose chest didn't glow in the dark. I never would have thought it, but since his return, there had been a few times when I'd actually missed the bravado, the swagger. Seeing him in action again was a bit like coming home.

It didn't help that he's one of those men who can wear black tie as effortlessly as a second skin. It didn't help that he candidly admitted he was totally dependent on me, and didn't seem to mind the admission. Was kind of proud of it, actually.

It didn't help that his hand was sliding slowly, perilously down my bare back as we danced—or for that matter, that he knew _how_ to dance, guiding me so effortlessly that it felt like flying. It didn't help that it was an oppressively muggy night, or that he looked at me in a way that seemed to expel the oxygen from the room.

He suggested that a little air might be in order, and I followed him without a second thought—I was incredibly conscious of the fact that every other Stark employee in the room was watching me dancing with the boss, and I would have said or done just about anything to be able to evade the spotlight.

On the roof, I started off trying to clarify the precarious nature of my public reputation—it would never even _occur_ to him that he could make me a laughingstock, not to mention fodder for every gossip rag in town, and destroy years' worth of delicately-nurtured professional relationships—and he was being infuriatingly blasé about it, as usual, denying that the problem even existed.

As I talked, I couldn't help but notice his achingly familiar smell: metal shavings and engine grease, alcohol and aftershave. I recalled how I'd missed it in the days following his disappearance—how I'd put off sending the last of his suits to the cleaners because I couldn't bear to lose that scent.

And then he stopped arguing, and I stopped explaining; we were close enough that, even though he barely moved, I felt his whole body shift towards me. Close enough for me to feel the heat radiating from the centre of his chest. I leaned in, clutched at his arm, forgot how to breathe.

Frozen in anticipation, I waited for him to move in for the kill, except… he didn't. Neither of us did. And then I knew: he was waiting for me to be the first to move, to take the plunge. To expose my weakness.

I did not want to be that girl—the one who gets one drink in her and then sloppily mauls her boss in a public venue crawling with photographers—and so I did the only thing I could think of: I told him I needed another drink. He shot down those stairs so fast you would have thought he already had his jet-propelled boots on.

A little while later, a waiter turned up on the roof with a martini on the tray. Dry. Vodka. _Four_ olives. "Compliments of Mr. Stark," he told me. Was there a message? No, there was not; he'd had the car brought around, and he'd left. An emergency at the office, apparently. To add insult to injury, it was a _dirty_ martini—_his_ preferred drink, not mine.

I'd assumed that, once the haze of alcohol-fueled attraction had lifted and the blood flow had been rerouted back to his brain, Tony had realized what a monumentally stupid idea that kiss would have been. He'd seen the imminent train wreck, and he'd extricated himself, as gracefully as could reasonably be expected for a man with limited diplomacy and even less patience.

I felt awkward about the whole thing, but I figured it wouldn't be too long before things returned to normal—or, as it turned out, as normal as they got when your boss was a man whose idea of fun was to fly around saving the world in a bright red gold-titanium rocket-suit. (And I thought I had it tough before!)

But over three months have passed since that night, and his focus hasn't wavered. He seems determined to goad me into something, and I've become equally determined not to give in. It's turned into a game of cat and mouse—and I'm not about to delude myself that I'm the cat.

He also hasn't called me in to 'take out the trash' in a while. I can't help but wonder whether it's part of his more conscientious outlook on life—the new Tony doesn't like being responsible for human collateral damage. Maybe that extends to broken hearts, too.

Off the call at impossibly long last, I'm typing up my notes and to-dos when my Blackberry buzzes, startling me.

_I love it when you're strict with me, don't forget your whip and furry handcuffs._

I snort derisively, my thumbs flying over the keys.

_I have three words for you, Mr. Stark: sexual harassment lawsuit._

The reply is almost instantaneous, as though he already knew what I was going to say:

_Right as always, Potts. Completely inappropriate. I withdraw the remark._

_PS What type of underwear are you wearing, if any?_

Fortunately, Tony never has to know that I actually laughed at that one.

The final message, about a minute later, reads:

_OK, sending Hogan to get you at 6. Don't keep the boss waiting._


	2. Without The Boss

**2. Without the Boss**

As bodyguards go, Harold "Happy" Hogan is the most devoted guy a self-centred, egomaniacal billionaire could possibly ask for. He's an ex-boxer—remarkably fresh-faced for someone who's taken that many punches to the head—and he has a good-natured disposition that never wavers, even when Tony is at his most irrationally petulant. I'm quite certain he'd cheerfully take a bullet for the boss if the occasion called for it—which is, unfortunately, a lot more likely under the current circumstances.

Happy's job became infinitely more complex in the wake of Tony's decision to reveal to the world that he was Iron Man. Obviously, Tony doesn't need a whole lot of bodyguarding when he's in the suit, but when he's out of it, he is as vulnerable as everyone else, in spite of all the bravado—and possibly more so than anyone else, because of it.

Lately, Tony has taken to sending Happy to ferry me around. He claims it's to give Happy something to do, but I suspect he's worried that someone might try to get to him through one of us—and that I'm the more likely target. Yet another reason why it's absolutely vital to keep our relationship strictly professional.

Even though I've only been outside five minutes, I'm already perspiring when the car pulls up. It's a steamy L.A. afternoon, spoiling for rain by nightfall. A wave of cool air hits me as I open the front passenger door; the interior of the Bentley is pleasantly brisk.

I settle into the passenger seat with a grateful sigh. Once I get this expense report out of the way, I'm looking forward to a good seven hours of uninterrupted me-time. Which, in my line of work, is a lot.

When Tony isn't in the car, I usually sit up front—it feels elitist to be in the back of the Bentley when it's just me and Happy. Like most people, he's a lot more chatty when the boss is out of earshot; our conversation is easy and pleasant, the product of long-standing familiarity.

Through the years, Happy and I have bonded over our mutual dedication to keeping our self-destructive employer in one piece. Whenever anyone asks Happy for a favour, no matter how difficult or complex the task at hand, he says either 'sure' or 'no problem' with faith-inspiring confidence. And, once that assurance has been given, he rarely fails to get things done.

Unlike me, however, he's never once argued with Tony or contradicted his instructions—like any good prizefighter, Happy just keeps his head down and his mouth shut.

"So, what's the plan for tonight?" he inquires. "You and the boss off to anywhere exciting?" There's a wistful note in his voice; while having the boss at home so much has definitely made my job simpler, it's not nearly as much fun for Happy as blazing around L.A. on the trail of Tony's Audi.

"Just finishing up some expense reports," I say. "I guess you and I are both in for a pretty dull evening."

A shrug ripples through his broad shoulders. "Hey, I like a little down time as much as the next guy. I don't get much of it." He chuckles. "I guess I was just hoping he might want to go to the Dodgers game, since it's such a nice night."

Happy is a man who delights in simple pleasures: sporting events, rock music, junk food, pretty girls. Working for Tony brings him frequently into the presence of one or more of the above, and the boss is always generous in sharing the spoils of war among the troops. Being around the cars is his favourite part of the job: like his employer, Happy's a bit of a grease monkey—though to my knowledge, he's never cannibalized his own kitchen appliances to build things that go boom in the night.

"Well, you never know, Hap—the night is young." I pat his shoulder consolingly. "I'm sure he'll be up to all kinds of shenanigans when we're through working." My stomach twists into a knot at the prospect of collecting some girl's tiny underpants from Tony's bedroom floor—the indignity of having to rush her clothes out to be sanitized, before she wakes up to find he's vanished. It's only a matter of time, I'm sure.

Happy nods, presumably still thinking about home runs and hot wings. "How about you? Any big plans tonight?"

"If I'm lucky? A pint of ice cream and a good movie on TV."

He laughs.

"I know, boring, right?"

"Depends. What kind of ice cr—"

"Chocolate."

He whistles. "Wow! Didn't have to think hard about that one, huh?"

"Nope."

"So, I was thinking… maybe _we_ could go to a ball game or something, some night, without the boss."

When I first started as Tony's executive assistant, the personal staff used to get together regularly to drink and swap war stories. Now, I can't remember the last time I went to a public event that didn't involve Tony in some way. "Sure, that sounds great!" I fire up the calendar on my Blackberry and start searching for an opening, cheered by the thought of a night out. "I'll see if we can get the usual suspects together."

Happy's looking straight ahead, hands shifting restlessly over the steering wheel. "Actually, Pepper, I was thinking… just you and me?"

"Oh?"

"You know, kinda like a date?"

Oh.

The silence lasts for almost a full minute. My main reaction is bewilderment: I honestly never thought that Happy's regard for me was anything more than platonic.

The car rolls into the driveway, smooth as silk, and pulls to a gentle stop. He must have timed this—saved the question until just before we arrived, so we'd both have an easy out if he didn't get the answer he was looking for.

Happy studies my face, trying to gauge my reaction. "It's okay if you're not up for it," he adds, deliberately casual. "Just thought I'd ask."

I'm blushing like crazy, which is ridiculous because it's just _Happy_, for crying out loud. "No, that's… that's really nice of you, Hap," I say, with complete sincerity. "Thanks. I, um… can I think about it and get back to you?"

"Yeah, okay. Sure."

"It's just been a really long day, my head is still at work—you know how it is."

He nods. "You bet."

I reach over and collect my purse from the back seat, then turn back to Happy, who's smiling. He's really cute when he smiles. How could I have never noticed that before?

Impulsively, I lean in and give him a quick kiss on the cheek. "Thanks again," I say. "Really."

The smile widens, lighting up his whole face. "Sure."

I smile back.


	3. Did I Shock You?

**3. Did I Shock You?**

The living room is dark, and Tony is nowhere to be seen. "Lights up," I command, and the room slowly illuminates. "Locate Mr. Stark."

"_Mr. Stark's current location is approximately one thousand, seven hundred and twenty feet directly overhead. I have informed him of your arrival. He is descending at an approximate speed of—_"

"Okay, JARVIS. Just let me know when he gets here. And could you import the expense report files from my mobile desktop?"

"_My pleasure, miss,_" replies the AI neutrally. The window-screen along the far wall instantly brightens, populated by the spreadsheets I've been working from to prepare the report. I walk over and tap the screen a few times, arranging them and highlighting the outstanding items I plan to discuss.

My head is still in a bit of a spin about Happy. The thing is, he's a sweet guy, we have a lot in common, and he clearly has the patience of a saint. There's an appealing, servants'-quarters sort of simplicity to it: the boss's driver and the boss's assistant. For once in my life, I could date a guy who wouldn't be put off by the demands of my job. In another time and place, I would have probably said yes to his offer without hesitation. There's only one small problem—

"Potts," says an unmistakeable voice, directly in my ear, making me jump. "Daydreaming on company time, I see."

"_Mr. Stark has arrived,_" announces JARVIS, belatedly. Clearly I should have been more specific in my definition of 'here.' Trust Tony to build an artificial intelligence with the ability to be a wiseass.

"Thanks."

I retreat to a more professional distance before turning around to take him in. Careworn jeans; bare feet; grubby white t-shirt, at least a size too small (all that pumping iron is clearly yielding some results); three parallel stripes of engine gunk up the length of one arm; blurry handprints of grease on both the shirt and the jeans; half-moons of grime under his fingernails; thick black hair in sweaty, uncombed hackles. The Tony Stark the rest of the world never sees. His _real_ secret identity.

"I was not daydreaming, I—"

The words fall away the moment I get a closer look at his face. He's pale and sweating, bruises blooming under both eyes. He looks like he just went toe-to-toe with a brick wall.

"What?" he demands breathlessly. The dark smudges give his eyes a hollow, haunted look, reminiscent of when he came back from Afghanistan. A smear of scarlet is clearly visible on his upper lip.

"Are you okay?"

"Sure. I'd be better if I had a drink, though." He crosses the room, weaving ever so slightly, as though walking in a strong wind.

I head in the same direction and manage to intercept before he can pour the scotch, gently taking the ice-filled glass from his hand and replacing it on the bar. I lean in, just a touch, trying to determine whether he's already had a few—piloting the Iron Man suit while under the influence wouldn't be the dumbest thing he's ever done, unfortunately—but all I detect is sweat and metal and Lava soap.

He doesn't protest, but carefully tracks my movements with wide, inquisitive eyes—as though I'm a malfunctioning piece of tech, and he's trying to figure out precisely which of my components needs to be repaired.

"Tony. You're bleeding." I'm already fumbling in my purse for the emergency pocket square I always carry for him—sartorial emergencies being the only type I could reasonably expect to encounter, before all of this Iron Man business.

He gives himself a once-over with eyes and hands; his movements are uncharacteristically clumsy and sluggish. "Uhh… nope." Even as he says it, a drop of blood soaks into his shirt, followed by another.

I reach for him, slipping one hand around to the back of his head to keep him still while I use the silk handkerchief to staunch the bleeding from both nostrils. "Uhh… yep," I reply, echoing his tone. "Put your head back."

He submits quietly to my ministrations, but lets me know with an elaborate eye-roll that he believes them to be completely unnecessary. For a full minute, we stand completely immobile, in such close proximity that I can feel a faint hum emanating from the blue glow at his core.

"Did you get in a fight?" I realize even as I'm posing the question that I don't really want to know the answer. I still have nightmares about making a death-defying escape through a storm of gunfire and pulverized glass… only to stand helplessly over Tony's broken, lifeless form.

"A fight? Me? Never." He laughs, but it's a little forced, ending in a dry cough.

Mercifully, the nosebleed seems to be stopping. I dip the clean end of the handkerchief into the glass of mostly-melted ice before applying it to his face again, swabbing away sweat and dried blood. His eyes drift closed. I can see the colour slowly starting to return to his cheeks.

"You'd be a good mother, Potts," he remarks, his eyes still tightly shut. I'm transfixed by his long, feathery eyelashes—I seldom have the opportunity to observe them close-up. "Not to me, of course—that would be, um, oedipal."

Now it's my turn to roll my eyes. "What were you doing up there, anyway?"

He glares, clearly wishing I would just let the matter drop entirely. "Stress tests."

"Stress tests? Can't you do that kind of thing indoors? You know, with, like, a wind tunnel or—"

"Not suit stress. _My_ stress. I wanted to see how long I could handle sustained high-altitude flight."

"And how did it go?" I ask, managing to keep my voice relatively neutral. My hand is still cupped at the base of his skull, and I can feel his pulse. It's fast. So is mine, for that matter. Of all the stupid, reckless…

"Pretty good, actually. I was up for almost four hours this time. I might have passed out a little," he adds, in a reflective tone, as though we're talking about the weather.

"You passed—oh my God! Tony...!" I know better than to say the word 'hospital,' but we both know I'm thinking it.

"It was only for a few seconds. JARVIS took control of the suit. I'm fine, it's fine." He straightens up and brushes my hands away impatiently. "All done, Nurse Nightingale?"

It's probably nothing serious, but I can't help thinking about altitude sickness. I doubt he even knows the symptoms to look out for. I, on the other hand, haven't been able to stop checking medical websites and Wikipedia for all the various permutations of things that might go wrong with Tony's newfound love of amateur heroics.

"Are you feeling sick to your stomach?" I query. "Does your head hurt? Are your extremities swollen?"

He nods soberly. "Now that you mention it, I do have some swelling in the inner, upper, thigh region, that whole area…"

He points, and I actually look down at his denim-clad crotch for just a second before my brain catches up.

I scowl, in what I hope is a menacing fashion, even though experience has taught me that it's hard to be menacing when you have this many freckles. His grin is insufferably smug. I'm blushing, mostly in frustration: I can't believe I left him such an easy opening. Still, the fact that he's well enough for verbal sparring quiets some of the butterflies of anxiety in my chest.

I recover with, "Well, you're just going to have to take care of that on your own time, Mr. Stark. Either that, or seek professional help."

"Don't be such a spoilsport. I think maybe, if you kissed it better…" His hands are actually at his fly. Oh, _lord_. And to think, my mother wonders why I don't like to talk about my work at family get-togethers.

I shield my eyes with one hand. "_Please_ stop."

"I'm sorry." He's not. "Did I shock you?"

The sound of ice clinking into a glass. I peek through my fingers. Mercifully, his jeans are still buttoned, and he's helping himself to a scotch on the rocks.

"Not at all," I reply, striving to regain my composure. "I mean, I've seen it all anyway. I was just hoping against hope that I might be able to write a report that did _not_ contain the words 'and then Mr. Stark exposed himself.'"

"You have _not_."

"What?"

"'Seen it all,'" he mimics, with air quotes.

"I'm sorry, did I shock you?" I echo. Advantage: Potts.

"When?"

"The first week I worked for you, when I came to drop off your dry cleaning, while you were _supposedly_ out." He'd missed a crucial stakeholder meeting because he was in bed with a hangover, but—of course—hadn't bothered to inform his new assistant so she could reschedule. "I was hanging things up, and you walked in from the bathroom…"

I didn't actually _see_ anything—his sudden appearance in the walk-in closet, amid a cloud of steam, startled me so much that I had only enough time to form the vaguest impression of nudity before my natural shyness compelled me to look away. By the time I looked back again, he was wearing a towel and an insouciant grin, making some lame joke about a literal interpretation of his last name.

Predictably, Tony calls my bluff: "Oh, sure, for a fraction of a second—and you didn't even _look_. Close only counts in horseshoes and hand grenades, Potts." He ambles over to the couch—I notice he's walking more steadily now—and sits down, cradling his drink close to his chest.

"Not to mention," I press on, "the seven hundred or so times I've caught you in flagrante delicto all over the house—"

"Seven hundred is a gross exaggeration—"

"…and in the car—on the plane—on the yacht—" I enumerate, ticking each location off on my fingers.

"…I think it's seriously only been, like, two… ten… maybe fifty times. Tops. And the most you ever saw was my butt." He sips his drink, sighs contentedly, and flashes his world-renowned thousand-watt smile. "Which—admit it—you thought was magnificent."

True. And, sad to say, also true.

"Is that dinner?" I ask, indicating the scotch.

"Yes. Would you like to be dessert?"

"Wow. Has that line _ever_ worked for you?"

"You tell me."

"_Tony._" I allow some of my irritation to rise to the surface, even though I know it will probably only encourage him.

Fortunately, the mention of food seems to have redirected his attention: I can hear his stomach growling from across the room. He probably hasn't eaten all day—he tends to lose track of time when he's working. "I don't think there's anything edible in the kitchen," he confesses, disarmingly contrite.

"Oh, is there a kitchen somewhere in this house, Mr. Stark?" I inquire, with a wry smile. "Do you know where it is?"

"I think so—it's that big white room where the espresso machine lives, right?" He's already reviewing takeout options on the small touchscreen in the end table.

"Not anymore." He gutted the espresso machine on Tuesday—at approximately 3:12 a.m., from what JARVIS tells me—and the replacement I ordered hasn't yet arrived from Italy. (I've been picking up his morning double shot from Starbucks. He hates their coffee; I hate that his refusal to wait an hour for some tiny spring to be machined in his state-of-the-art workshop has added an extra step to my day. It's kind of a standoff.)

Tony gives me a blank look, which means he either doesn't remember leaving a $3,000 La Cimbali in tiny pieces on the kitchen floor (possible) or is puzzled by the apparently revelatory fact that his actions have consequences (more likely).

Brightly-coloured menus flash across the little screen in dizzying succession. "Chinese?" he suggests. "Fried chicken?"

"_Not_ chicken." I'd like to avoid giving him the opportunity to make reference to breasts and thighs if at all possible. "How about pizza?"

"Sold." He snaps his fingers, and the images on the screen disappear. "JARVIS, call out and get us a large pizza—pepperoni, extra cheese, extra olives." To me, he adds, "Right?"

I nod, wondering if the olive thing is meant to be a dig. Then again, this is the guy who has never once in six years remembered my birthday. There's very little evidence to suggest that anything I say gets committed to his long-term memory.

"See if you can rustle up some beer with that, too."

"_I live to serve, sir._"


	4. Are You Crazy?

**4. Are You Crazy?**

We are deep in discussion of Tony's bewildering array of expenses. He's enjoying himself thoroughly. I'm getting a tension headache.

"Seriously," I exclaim, exasperated, "why would you spend $9400 at Shoe Barn? Why would you even _go_ to Shoe Barn?"

"Why would anyone go to _Shoe_ Barn, Potts? Obviously, I needed _shoes_. Frankly, sometimes I question your deductive reasoning skills."

I myself have not been to Shoe Barn since I was sixteen, but I am fairly certain it's not the kind of place that deals in either handmade Italian leathercraft or high-tech cross-trainers named after fearsome jungle predators. In spite of the fact that he's annoying me, I avoid mentioning that all of his dress shoes are custom-built to include a subtle, almost imperceptible set of lifts—one of Tony's few truly secret vanities.

"It's a professional expense," he assures me. He's had years to practice his offhand, I'm-such-a-genius-that-I-honestly-couldn't-care-less-about-this-conversation tone. I'd say he's got it pretty much perfect at this point, actually.

"Oh, so she was a professional?"

"It's not what you think. I had Happy fill the cab of Rhodey's truck with about five hundred pairs of stiletto heels."

I fantasize, briefly, about generous severance packages and unlimited free time. "That's personal." I tap the screen and pull the line over to the spreadsheet docked in the right-hand corner.

"He's a professional associate, it's professional. We can call it a team-building exercise." The still-highlighted line starts to float back over to the left-hand corner, ducking away from my finger when I try to tap it.

"JARVIS," I say, warningly.

"_I would never be so presumptuous, Miss Potts."_ The AI actually sounds offended.

I turn around to see Tony aiming his cell phone at the screen. I snatch it away, tempted to ask if he wants to be put in time-out. He throws up his hands in defeat.

"Buzz kill." He crosses his arms sulkily, props his feet up on the coffee table, and adds, "You're just cranky because no one bought _you_ five hundred pairs of fuck-me shoes."

"At $18.80 a pair? No thanks." I can't resist sneaking a loving glance downward at my tasteful Jimmy Choos. I guess there are a few perks to this executive assistant gig, after all. "Well, for almost ten grand, I sure hope for your sake that Rhodey put out."

He laughs—a weird little mad-scientist cackle few people ever get to hear. His public persona is too cool for that kind of laughter, too world-weary.

I perch beside him on the couch, using his phone to flick through to the next item on my list. "$1800 at the grocery store?"

The corner of his mouth quirks. "Call that one personal development."

I click over to the itemized credit card statement and scan for the date in question until I find a matching purchase. "_Please_ do not tell me that you personally consumed all of this vodka and Red Bull."

"Okay. I won't tell you."

"You are such a _frat boy_ sometimes," I mutter, more to myself than to him. I know for a fact that he was still too young to join a fraternity when he graduated MIT, although I don't think for a second that it stopped him from participating in some of their leisure activities.

Like clockwork, he chimes in to correct me. "For your information, I was never in a—" The statement is interrupted by a sharp cough, then another.

"Tony?"

He takes a sip of his drink. "I'm fine," he growls, before I can even ask. "Your inability to appreciate a brilliant practical joke just got caught in my throat there for a second."

I'm still uneasy, in spite of all his reassurances. "Maybe you should lie down for a little while," I suggest, already crafting a suitably crushing reply to whatever vulgar rejoinder he decides to employ.

Without a word, he leans in. Startled, I put a hand out to halt his approach before he can kiss me—assuming that's what he's got planned—but he brushes past it and sinks into the couch, slowly lowering his head until his cheek is resting on my thigh.

I'm not sure whether to be worried, annoyed, or flat-out scandalized. "What are you doing?"

"You said I should lie down…" When he speaks, his beard prickles against my skin, even through the fabric of my skirt.

"Are you _crazy_?"

"Maybe."

I can't tell if he's joking, and it scares me a little. I touch his shoulder lightly, and he reaches up and covers my hand with his own, holding it there.

"I need to be here for a second." He sounds exhausted. "Just ignore me."

At a loss for anything else to do, I pick up my Blackberry and start going through my e-mails one-handed. I'm able to respond to four of them before the sheer absurdity of the situation becomes too much to bear, and I lose the ability to remember what I typed even a few seconds ago.

I look down at my boss, and see that his eyes are closed. He's very still: for once, not a single part of him is ticking with pent-up energy. If it weren't for the relative tension in his frame, and the faint flutter of those dark, ridiculously pretty lashes, I'd swear he was asleep. In spite of the increased density of his frame, he suddenly seems incredibly small, and fragile.

And then I do something that shocks even me: I turn the phones off entirely. Mine _and_ his.

For the first time in our long association, everything is quiet, and we are entirely alone. There are no demands, no obligations, no debates, no standards to uphold or public persona to defend, no _work_. I'm off the clock, for right now at least.

I watch through the window as pearly mist slowly melts into silver rain, falling on a black and grey ocean. The whole house is so preternaturally silent that I can't even tell if JARVIS is working. It's all so simple, so commonplace, so _real_—the hard muscles of his arm under my fingertips; the easy rhythm of his breathing; the solid warmth of his hand on mine.

He clearly needs a haircut, but—even though my phone is still within easy reach—I don't make a note to schedule one. With my free hand, I slowly thread my fingers through the dark waves of hair, smoothing it down, combing it away from his face.

He doesn't move, but small smile lines appear at the corner of his mouth, and he squeezes my hand ever so slightly.

I gently stroke his cheek, skimming the coarse bristles of his goatee with my knuckles. I'm willing myself not to tremble; I've never touched him like this. I'm not quite sure why I'm doing it now, except… it never seemed quite so _possible_ as it does in this moment. We're at an axis of sorts—a rare astrological event of mutual vulnerability. Mathematically unlikely, but not entirely implausible.

When I trace the angular line of his jaw with a single fingernail, he makes a soft growling noise, faintly reminiscent of a purr, deep in the back of his throat. The sound has an electrifying effect on me, sending a jolt to every nerve ending in my body simultaneously. I freeze, my hand hovering over his face.

"Hey," he protests, in a thick, drowsy sort of voice. "I didn't say stop."

He shifts onto his back, settling his head in my lap, and drags my hand along his chest, bringing it to rest on top of the arc reactor. It's warm, and thrums beneath my fingers, exactly like a beating heart might. His eyes are still closed. He's smiling.

Emboldened, I graze his lower lip with my fingertips. I feel as though everything is unfolding in lush, langorous slow motion. He nibbles lightly at my index finger, making me jump. I press my hand against his mouth. "No biting."

"No promises," he murmurs into my fingers.

"_The pizza has arrived_," announces JARVIS, in what seems like an overly strident tone.

I'm so startled by the interruption that I actually spring to my feet, dumping Tony onto the floor in the process. Caught off-guard, he lands heavily on his back. Propping himself up on his elbows, he blinks up at me, looking disoriented; in fact, he looks exactly the way I feel—as though he's wondering what the hell just happened.

What the hell _did_ just happen?

"Guess I'm hungrier than I thought," I say, far too loudly, avoiding his gaze as I scurry out of the room.


	5. I'm Thinking

**5. I'm Thinking**

It isn't a delivery boy at the door.

"Thanks, Happy," I say, taking the warm, flat box from his hands. "We were just taking a break." Which is one way of putting it. "Do you want to come up?"

I can't decide whether I'd rather he said yes or no—whether his presence would break the tension in the room or merely sublimate it. I'm desperate to seem as though nothing unusual is going on, to the point where I am excruciatingly conscious of everything I'm saying and doing. Back under the spotlight again—the exact place I was hoping to avoid.

"No thanks." Happy stacks the rest of our dinner on top of the pizza box: in addition to the four frosty beers in their cardboard sleeve, there is also a pint of Haagen Dazs—chocolate. He winks at me. "But if you snuck me some leftovers later on, I wouldn't say no."

I'm so grateful for his refusal that I agree without even really thinking about it.

* * *

When I put the pizza down on the coffee table, Tony dives headfirst into the box, emerging with a slice in each hand and one tucked into his mouth. _Self-restraint_ is yet another word conspicuously absent from his lexicon.

I consider starting a discussion about what happened a few minutes ago—but honestly, I don't even know where to begin. I'm also distracted by the pizza, which smells amazing.

While Tony busies himself with the beer, I quickly secure a slice for myself before I lose a finger. He looks quizzically at the ice cream, but refrains from comment.

The beer is a brand I don't recognize, a dark-brown bottle with gold foil around the neck. Tony cracks one and takes a long pull, his head thrown back, his Adam's apple bobbing as he swallows. Just watching him makes me deliciously thirsty.

I'm a little concerned when he immediately uncaps a second beer—that's pretty quick, even for him. Expanding on the frat-boy theme, I inquire, "Why don't you just do a keg-stand while you're at it?"

He hands the bottle to me, then clinks his own against it. "Drink up. That's an order."

The beer is dark, aromatic, and slightly sweet. It goes well with the pizza, which is better than any I've ever had. Trust Tony Stark to insist on the best of everything, even when it comes to something as basic as takeout.

We make pleasant, if somewhat artificial, small talk: my day (dodging reporters, meetings with the ballistics and propulsion divisions, fielding increasingly anxious calls from a film studio wanting to buy the rights to Tony's life story), his day (stress tests, sets and reps, reruns of _Top Gear_, long technical story vaguely involving a compression coil). Each of us keeps to our own end of the couch.

Once I've eaten my pizza (two slices to Tony's five), I delve into the ice cream. It's so wonderfully cold that it burns against my tongue and numbs the roof of my mouth. Surprisingly, I don't offer to share, and—even more astonishingly—Tony doesn't ask. I eat the whole thing in complete silence, and he simply observes, with an air of almost scientific curiosity, as though he's evaluating my technique.

When he opens a second beer for each of us, I don't protest, even though I'm quite certain this is just another strategy to avoid working. This moment of stillness is exactly what I need right now, and I don't have the energy to fight it. I kick off my shoes, put my feet up, and let out a contented sigh.

"Long day?" Tony inquires, with unexpected sympathy, as he helps himself to the last lonely slice of pizza.

I nod. "I'm way behind on everything right now—I think it'll be easier once the media finally calm down and I can get in and out of the office without running the gauntlet." I can't quite keep the reproach out of my tone.

He swallows a particularly ambitious mouthful before responding, "I could make another announcement if it would help—you know, draw their fire. Something about my private life, maybe." Around another enormous bite, he suggests, "I could tell them I'm from another planet?"

"Aren't you?" I flash him a mischievous grin.

"You have chocolate on your face."

I smile.

He scoots closer to me on the couch, then lifts up my ankles and eases my bare feet into his lap.

The alcohol and the unparalleled joy of a full stomach have mellowed me to the point where I can really only muster a small amount of curiosity, and absolutely no embarrassment, as he takes my left foot in both hands and starts to massage it gently. "Um, Tony…?" Not that I'm making any move to stop him.

He shrugs fluidly. "I need something to do with my hands. It lets me think, helps me focus. It's how I keep from getting bored." Which is true, and all around us is the evidence—his musical instruments, his video games, his computer terminals.

He presses his thumb against the ball of my foot, rubbing in small circles, releasing tension I didn't even realize was there.

"Oh-hhh." The noise—two parts moan to one part whimper—is out of my mouth before I can stop it.

He shoots me a sidelong glance. "So. Expense reports?"

I'm hard-pressed to recall what an expense report is, let alone why I would ever in a million years get worked up over such a thing. I feel as though I'm about to melt into a puddle and soak right into the couch. I start pondering the _other_ things Tony Stark might do to me with those skilled hands, just to help himself focus.

"Is that why you sleep with so many women?" I hear myself ask. "To alleviate your boredom?"

Oh, lord, I can't _believe_ I just said that.

"That's one reason." He manipulates each of my toes in turn with delicate, mechanical precision, as though testing their range of movement. "Beats playing Solitaire. You're blushing," he adds, carelessly.

"That always happens when I've been drinking." Though in this case, it's happening primarily because I'm wondering whether he means _actual_ Solitaire, or…?

"Drinking on the job, huh?" His thumb lazily sketches a pattern over my instep. "That doesn't sound like you, Potts. Are you sure?"

I shake my head. I'm not particularly sure of _anything_ at this precise moment. "I can't think," I confess. "I can't concentrate with you touching me like that."

"Like what?" he inquires, feather-light fingers brushing my ankle. Then, slowly, deliberately, his hand starts to move upwards, caressing my calf.

"Like _that_—stop it!" Sitting up, I jerk my foot away—narrowly avoiding kicking him in the chin in the process. "What do you want from me, Tony?"

"What do you mean, Pepper?" he asks, softly, mockingly, his face implacable.

"I mean…" I take a deep breath. I can't keep dancing around this—it's just too much. "Do you want to sleep with me?"

"You mean, right now?" A predatory smirk. "That'd be great, actually."

"That's not what I mean."

"Well, then tell me what you _do_ mean."

"Is that your goal? Is that what all of this is about?"

"All of _what_?"

"Stop it! Stop acting like you don't know what you're doing! All the come-ons, the touching, the cuddling, all… _this_! I'm not an idiot, Tony! If you want me to have sex with you, at least have the courtesy to _ask_ me directly, instead of all this lying in my lap and getting me drunk and giving me foot rubs until it's like, oh, well, whoops! I slept with my boss, but it must have just been an _accident_! It must have just _happened_ somehow! It's… disrespectful," I finish, somewhat anticlimactically, running out of steam as it becomes clear from the look on his face that he has no idea what I'm talking about.

"You think I'm trying to trick you? For _sex_?" He sounds mildly offended. I can't tell whether it's the suggestion that he would _manipulate_ me into sex, or simply the idea that he would _need_ to strategize in order to get sex (as opposed to just holding out his arms and catching the next woman to throw herself at him). He holds up his hands in a gesture of surrender. "Okay, I can see how the preponderance of the evidence is against me on that one. But seriously, isn't it even remotely possible that for once I just wanted to do something nice?"

"That's just it, Tony—I have no idea. I can't read you lately. At all. I mean, if all you're after is sex, then… I don't know, we're both adults, it's a discussion we could have—although not right now, because we've both been drinking, and there was the touching, and... um…" With considerable effort, I manage to stop imagining where the touching was leading, and to haul myself back on track. "I just can't figure out what you want, and it's really… tiring."

"Tiring?"

"Exhausting, actually."

His eyes are suddenly, profoundly sad. "I'm sorry." He moves back, installing himself on the opposite end of the elongated sofa, putting distance between us. The empty air around me suddenly feels colder with the absence of him. "I'm not trying to make things more difficult for you, Pepper. Really. Believe it or not, that's actually the last thing I want to do."

"Then just _tell me_ what you _want_!" I wish he would argue back, get worked up a bit—being the only one yelling makes me feel a bit like a kid throwing a tantrum.

"I don't know." He shifts awkwardly, crossing his legs. "I'm not trying to be circuitous, I actually don't know how to articulate it."

Considering that he just used two SAT words in that last sentence, I suspect he might be underestimating himself. "Could you at least try?"

"Well… I feel like, because it's you… I don't know, Pepper, you're probably more aware of my character defects than I am. You've seen the absolute worst of me in every possible setting. And yet you, of all people, refuse to accept that my flaws are completely intrinsic. You're about the only person that doesn't believe I'm either A, a socially-retarded technological idiot savant, or B, an amoral sociopath incapable of empathy." At a loss for anything to fiddle with, he clasps and unclasps his hands. "I like that you push back, that you challenge me, that you don't let me get away with anything. You make me a better person. I mean, your belief in me makes me feel as though I'm capable of _being_ a better person. Makes me _want_ to be. Does any of that make sense?"

Speechless, I can only nod.

"Good. It's not that I want to sleep with you—although, don't get me wrong, I _do_ want to sleep with you, and actually, if we dial this conversation back about two minutes, I believe you'll find that you alluded to there being a discussion we could have about—"

"Tony, focus, please." I say it without thinking, as though we're still reviewing his expenses and he's headed full-steam into some long tangent about what a ridiculously large blind spot the Lamborghini Countach had.

He smiles down at his hands, self-consciously. "Okay, here it is: I think we'd be good together. And I may be wrong, but I think you think so too. The problem is that neither of us wants to be the first one to put it out there. So _I'm_ putting it out there. That's what I want, Pepper—I want _you_."

He says it in his usual, flippant, can't-be-bothered tone—but when he finally meets my gaze, I'm startled by the raw emotion plainly written on his face.

"Really?" My voice is about an octave higher than normal.

He lets out a frustrated sigh. "Yeah, see, _this_ is why I didn't want to have this discussion. It's weird, right? I didn't want you to freak out, and now you're freaking out. Right?"

This—Tony letting his guard down, letting me in—is the last thing in the world I expected. And now I have no idea how to respond. I _am_ freaking out, a little.

I'd be lying if I said I've never thought about getting involved with Tony Stark. The scenarios I've envisioned are, by and large, pretty grim, end-of-times kind of stuff, with very little thought given to the aftermath, in which we face the consequences of our actions.

But what he's proposing is so much more complicated, has so much more potential to go completely, disastrously _wrong_—and, frankly, it scares the hell out of me.

"Hey," he murmurs. "Come on, say something. Anything. Unless it's 'I quit.'" He snickers at his own joke, but stops abruptly when he sees I'm not laughing. "Okay, seriously, Potts, you better not be about to quit."

"No, I'm not. I'm just… give me a minute, okay? I need to _think_. I'm thinking."

He eases closer to me, with a liberal dose of the old pre-Iron Man swagger. "Thinking?" he echoes, sliding an arm around my shoulders. Drawing me in.

I nod slowly, feeling a bit like a mouse in the thrall of a king cobra. Like I'm about to be devoured whole.

"Well…" He touches my lips, then slowly caresses my cheek. The pads of his fingertips are rough—fixer's hands. "As I was saying earlier, you know what helps _me_ think..."

His mouth on mine is warm, liquid. I can taste the beer from earlier. The kiss is a world of promise: sweet, and slow, and surprisingly chaste, considering the source. Rather than trying to batter down the door, he's simply knocking. Asking to come in.

When he pulls back, I let out a breath I didn't even realize I was holding. I've forgotten how to open my eyes.

"Hey, how's that thinking going?" he asks softly, brushing a stray tendril of hair away from my face. "Because if you need more time…"

His beard rasps against my cheek as he plants a kiss just below my ear, then another on the side of my neck. I shiver; he's found my most secret weakness, just as I predicted. Equally predictably… I surrender.

When my body arches into his, his arm tightens around me convulsively. His arc reactor is warm, even through layers of fabric; the rim of it digs into my chest, but I'm beyond caring. He's still going slowly, so slowly… testing. Experimenting. Figuring out how I work.

Not for the first time, it strikes me that the reason Tony is so good at this particular aspect of human interaction is because it's all about observation and repetition: isolating patterns, identifying creative solutions, achieving desired results. Using his hands. These are all things he does very, very well.

He eases me backwards onto the couch, one hand supporting my back, and as he does so, he lifts his head to look me in the face. Surprisingly, he seems worried. "This is okay, right?" This single moment of apprehension does more to reassure me than any polished line ever could.

"Come on, Tony, focus," I tease. I still have one hand tangled in his hair, and I use it to pull him towards me. "Totally okay," I murmur against his lips.

He kisses me again, breathless and fast, his movements more assured now: apparently he's gathered enough data for the time being. One hand slides down the front of my shirt, flicking each button undone, calluses rasping against the soft cotton. The other is pulling my hair free of its tidy chignon. As usual, once committed to a course of action, he doesn't waste a second.

I've always wondered what it would be like, to be the absolute centre of Tony Stark's attention. The analytical part of my mind is cataloguing every touch, every breath. He's skilful, methodical, practiced. Focused.

So am I, for that matter—so focused on him that the peculiar shudder that courses through his body is all too noticeable.

"What—?"

I don't even have time to formulate the question—assuming there was any chance of my dazed brain being able to assemble verbs and nouns at this particular moment. He breaks away, sitting up. His hand is scrabbling at his throat, tugging at the collar of his shirt as though it's choking him.

"I don't feel good," he says, sheepishly, gulping air. He's trembling—no, shivering. "Sorry."

"For what?"

By way of answer, he turns aside and vomits all over the floor. Prodigiously.

"I _really_ don't feel good," he reiterates. His face is ashen.

"JARVIS?" I call out.

"_Miss Potts?_"

"No ambulance," Tony protests.

"JARVIS, tell Happy to bring the car around. Tell him to hurry. We're going to take Mr. Stark to the hospital."

Tony doesn't argue, which is how I know something is seriously wrong.

"_The SHIELD facility?_" It makes sense: the private, secure hospital where we were treated for our injuries after that awful night is one of the best in the country. And it's off the radar, press-wise.

"I think that would be best, don't you?" I realize that I'm asking an artificial intelligence for its opinion in a crisis situation, but it's all I can do to keep calm.

"_It would appear so. Would you like me to alert the triage station of your impending arrival? I can provide a detailed account of Mr. Stark's symptoms, as well as his most recent medical history._"

"Yes, please."

Tony has his head between his knees. "Stop spinning the room, while you're at it," he adds, his voice muffled.

"_I'll take it under advisement, sir._"

I curl an arm around Tony's waist, rubbing his back with my free hand. "Keep still. Take deep breaths. I can't say I've ever had _that_ effect before," I tease, trying not to focus on the fact that the room reeks of stale beer and partly-digested pizza.

"It's not—" He heaves, then brings up again, all over my beautiful shoes. Naturally.

"I know. It's okay, Tony. Trust me. It's going to be okay."

As is always the case when I say those words, I hope like hell that I'm telling the truth.


	6. I Doubt It

**6. I Doubt It**

I help Tony into the backseat, slide in beside him, and the car pulls out.

Happy passes me two plastic shopping bags over his shoulder; JARVIS must have told him that the boss was throwing up. I wonder if the AI also told him about what was going on shortly beforehand—it probably wouldn't occur to JARVIS to withhold that kind of information, especially in an emergency. He has about as much discretion as his creator.

"This is nothing, compared to some of the hangovers I've had," Tony remarks irritably, the dense weight of him pressed against my shoulder. I don't even think he realizes he's sitting on my arm. "There's no need to drive like a fucking maniac."

The car is moving in a straight line, barely exceeding the speed limit. Happy's eye catches mine in the rearview mirror. He looks almost as worried as I feel.

The rain has stopped, but the streets are still sleekly irridescent. The passing streetlamps drag stripes of light into and across the car's black interior, which is doused in an ethereal blue glow. My chest still feels bruised from the arc reactor, even though that kiss is like a memory from a past life. I talk to him to reassure myself that he's all right, and to keep the panic at bay.

"Is your head still bothering you?"

"Yeah, it's kind of a head… face… ear… jaw… neck ache, sort of."

I feign a smile. "Well, if _that's_ all it is, I think you're being a bit of a drama queen. Don't you?"

His hand anchors itself to my knee. "You know me, Potts, I'll do anything…" When he breathes in, there's a distinct rattle. "…for a little attention."

"Thought so."

"Anyhow, you were the one determined to get me drunk and take advantage of me. I lay this entirely at your feet."

"Speaking of which, you _ruined_ my shoes."

"_You_ didn't share any of your ice cream."

"Two wrongs don't make a right."

He nods. "Sure, you can have them."

"What?"

"Is it snowing in here?" he slurs. His eyes are half-lidded, unfocused.

My heart is throbbing painfully. "Tony? Tony, stay with me."

He goes slack, his head lolling against my chest.

* * *

At the SHIELD hospital, I'm filling out paperwork as Tony is carted away on a stretcher. The triage nurse gives me a richly-deserved lecture about not calling an ambulance. In his existing file, Tony has me listed as his next of kin, which is simultaneously heartwarming and heartbreaking.

Happy sits beside me in the waiting room. His voice is as calm as always, but he's tightly wound, one foot tapping the floor expectantly.

"I should have done something sooner," I berate myself. "I should have insisted."

Happy is shaking his head. "You know it wouldn't have done any good. He's the boss."

And Tony _is_ the boss. But he's also the man whose head I cradled in my lap, when all the noise was shut off and the world was populated by the two of us alone. The man who told me that I inspired him to be, for the first time in his life, more accountable for his actions. Already, that moment is slipping away, even as I try to hold onto it.

I realize Happy is still talking. "Hmm?"

"I said, your feet must be freezing on that floor."

They are, although I haven't noticed it until just now. "He barfed in my favourite shoes," I explain ruefully.

Happy makes a face. "What a waste of good pizza."

"Yeah, but the pizza didn't cost seven hundred dollars. And that was on sale!" A bark of laughter that comes out sounding more like a sob. I'm not quite sure why I'm ranting about shoes at a time like this. Why I'm suddenly ready to cry over them.

"I'm gonna get a coffee. You want one?"

I nod, not trusting myself to speak. He disappears around the corner.

I know that there are a million and one things I could and should be doing right now. At an absolute minimum, I need to reschedule Tony's appointments for tomorrow, and probably mine too—unlike my boss, I don't have the ability to pull an all-nighter and show up to a 10 a.m. meeting looking fresh as a daisy. I should also call Rhodey—partly because he seems to be the only person able to talk sense into Tony about things like this, but also because I don't want him to hear about Tony's illness through the swift, merciless military grapevine. I know SHIELD is a paramilitary organization, but it would be foolish to assume there isn't any overlap.

However, I'm not doing any of those things. Instead, I'm folded awkwardly into a hard hospital chair, with my bare feet tucked up and my chin resting on my knee. I'm stunned. Paralyzed. And it's… well… unprofessional.

One of those end-of-the-world scenarios in which I had pictured myself falling into Tony's arms was if one of us was about to die. Now that I've had a little taste of that reality, it doesn't seem quite so appealing.

I let Tony convince me he was fine because I _wanted_ him to be fine. I let my feelings about him blind me to the fact that his life was in very real danger.

That can't happen again.

Despite the cold floor, I'm pacing out my nervous energy when Happy returns with a large coffee in each hand, a copy of the _LA Times_ tucked under his arm, and a plastic bag hooked over one wrist. The familiarity is comforting: the two of us could be at any one of a hundred events, waiting for Tony to issue our marching orders. He has already divided the paper along time-honoured lines—Happy gets the sports and funny pages; I get the business and lifestyle sections, and the Sudoku. My coffee is two sugars, one cream, as always. Divested of my heels, I have to look up to thank him, which, unaccountably, makes it feel a bit like we're strangers, after all.

Happy passes me the bag. I peek inside to find a pair of green rubber flip-flops with yellow daisies on them.

"Thanks, Hap," I say a second time.

"Hey, no problem."

He sees that I'm about to cry, and, without a word, folds me into his arms. I bury my face in his chest, my tears soaking into his crisp white shirt. I can smell fabric softener, and beneath that, his sweat. He strokes the back of my head with his large, fighter's hand.

I don't kiss him, of course, but the thing is, I can imagine myself doing it. It doesn't feel like a betrayal, because in the dichotomy of my world, I have two lives, two distinct identities—the person I am when I'm with Tony, and the person I am without him.

Kind of like putting on a suit and being a superhero.

* * *

At just after 2 a.m., the doctor escorts me in to see Tony—who does, in fact, have altitude sickness. Fluid in his lungs, swelling in his brain; left to his own devices, he'd probably have gone to bed and never woken up.

As we navigate the hospital's maze of corridors, the doctor gives detailed instructions for the next few days' care and feeding of my boss. I take copious notes: concentrated oxygen, medications, plenty of fluids, bed rest. No physical exertion—he gives me a sidelong glance as he says this, suggesting that JARVIS really did give them a _detailed_ account of Tony's symptoms.

Tony is sitting up in bed, with an IV in his arm and an oxygen tube affixed to his nose. I flash back to the last time we were here—a doctor tweezed slivers of glass out of my arms while, in the adjoining bed, Tony was getting stitches in his scalp, just above the hairline.

The moment I walk in the room, he lights up, starts talking.

"I'm going to incorporate a portable oxygen concentrator into the suit's ventilation system." His voice is hoarse, reedy. "Shouldn't be too difficult—they're going to let me take one home to play with."

He's speaking rapidly, and his brown eyes have taken on a familiar, slightly manic quality. He's already done several pages of intricate sketches and calculations on a yellow legal pad with a ballpoint pen. I feel a surge of irrational irritation towards whichever member of the hospital staff provided him with these implements. He squeaks a little when he takes a deep breath.

"The doctor also recommended that I take a carbonic anhydrase inhibitor if I'm going to be doing long flights. Apparently the military has had a lot of success with—"

He's still too pale. "Tony, right now you need to rest."

He seems to notice me for the first time. He stops talking, smiles, and holds out his hand expectantly. My head is buzzy with too much upheaval and too little sleep. "Do you want your phone?" I ask, uncertainly. "I think I left it in the car."

"What? No." He beckons impatiently. "Get over here."

I approach, taking care not to disturb any of the tubes. As soon as I step within arm's reach, he leans over the bedrail, grabs me, and kisses me soundly, almost overbalancing in the process. There's a little more urgency this time, and a lot more confidence. The drawings slide off his lap and spill onto the floor.

I hold him by the shoulders and push him, gently but firmly, back into bed. "That's enough."

He's grinning. "I'm fine, I feel fine. Great, actually." He traps my hand in both of his and cradles it possessively, close to his chest, the way he might hold a glass of scotch. "I feel like everything is finally coming together."

"Good, that's good."

"They want me to stay here overnight, but I'll sign myself out. Then we can go back and finish what we started." He's tracing my knuckles with a single fingertip. "Just you and me…" He raises my hand to his lips, kissing each of my fingers in turn.

For a brief moment, I give myself permission to imagine what he's suggesting. It would be so easy to say yes, to allow myself to be devoured. Consumed. Incinerated.

He picks up on my hesitation, but misreads its meaning. "Don't worry, Nurse Potts, I promise not to overexert myself," he adds teasingly.

"This isn't a good idea, Tony."

He shakes his head emphatically, refusing to listen to what he doesn't want to hear. "I told you, I feel great. All this stuff, I know it looks crazy, but it's just precautionary. The doctor fixed me right up. I'm in tip-top shape. And I look forward to proving it to you."

"No, I mean… _this_ isn't a good idea. Not right now. Maybe not ever."

"It's you and me. How could it not be a good idea?"

I don't even know where to begin with that statement. So I don't.

"This isn't like one of your machines, where if it doesn't work you can just take it apart and build it again the way you want it. This is my _life_, Tony. And I don't want to spend it standing on the sidelines, watching you take stupid risks with yours. You could have died tonight!"

"Look, if you just need some time, I can wait. I'm a patient man." He forestalls my obvious objection with, "Okay, I'm not—but for you, I can make an exception." He smiles. His confidence—his _arrogance_—is really starting to unhinge me. As usual, he's just charging ahead, without stopping to think of the consequences, or caring about who might get hurt along the way. The more things change, the more they stay the same.

"I really don't think it's going to work."

"Seriously?" The look of abject disbelief on his face is tragic—he's so used to getting whatever he wants, to talking his way out of any situation, that he can't understand why it isn't succeeding. "That's the way you really feel?"

I give his hand a squeeze. "I think us getting involved right now would be a big mistake."

I haven't seen this kind of panic in his eyes since the time I (literally) nearly broke his heart. "Are you going to quit?"

"No. Stop asking me that every time we disagree on something." I try to extricate my hand, but he hangs on stubbornly. "I'm not just going to abandon you, Tony. I'm still your friend. I care about you, a lot. But that's all we are—friends." I finally succeed in tugging my hand free.

His jaw hardens, almost imperceptibly—I know that look. Shields up. Battle stations. "Well, if we're going back to the way things used to be… I'm going to start seeing other women." I can't tell whether he's serious, or whether he's saying it to lash out at me. Maybe both.

"That's okay." And, surprisingly, it actually is okay with me—because I understand now that it's just sex, not intimacy. Just one more puzzle to solve, one more way to keep his hands busy. Even when he's with them, he's still alone, really. I'd like to think it would have been different with us, but I can't say for sure—which is another reason why it's better like this. "Maybe I will, too."

The fact that he doesn't use that easy opening to make a double-entendre (me, seeing other women) is how I know he is genuinely hurt. "Is _that_ what this is about? Some other guy? Who is it?" Recovering, he feigns petulance: "Can he fly? 'Cause I can fly, you know."

His cracking jokes gives me a glimmer of hope that maybe, just maybe, this is all going to be okay.

"This is about _you_. You need time to find your feet right now. Time to grow. I think it's really important that nothing interferes with that. I mean, you know how easily you get distracted from your goals sometimes," I chide, smiling. He doesn't smile back. "And I can't… I can't be the thing that keeps you accountable. I can't be your conscience. You have to learn to do that for yourself."

"I'm making progress. Isn't that enough?"

"It's not just that. This is a new thing for you—I mean, feeling this way about someone. This is like… infatuation, Mark I."

Anger flares in his dark eyes. "Oh, come _on_! Would you give me some credit here? I'm not a kid, Pepper, and this isn't just some little crush! You know I…"

This is it. If he tells me he loves me, there's really no going back from this. "You _what_, Tony?" I challenge. I simultaneously hope and dread that he'll say it.

He opens his mouth, but no sound comes out. Finally, he closes it again, defeated.

I crouch beside his bed and pick up the scattered drawings, placing them on the bedside table. "Looks like you have a lot of work to do." As relieved as I am, I can't quite manage to keep the sadness out of my voice.

"Pepper."

"I have to go do a little damage control. But I'll stop by the house tomorrow, to see if you need anything. I still need you to sign off on those expense reports. And I need you to review your speech for the stakeholders' AGM." I can't say it, and yet I can't stop saying it: _I need you_.

"Pepper, _please_."

Maybe it's selfish of me, but I'd rather be Tony's friend in the long term than his lover in the short term. I don't doubt that his feelings are sincere—I can tell they are. But he's not exactly known for his follow-through. And I don't want to be pushed out of the picture when Mark II comes along. I don't want to wake up one morning and find some smug young girl standing there with my clothes in a dry-cleaning bag. Not only would he have lost respect for me, but I would have lost respect for myself.

I can't tell Tony any of this—he'd try to talk me out of it, and in all likelihood, he'd succeed.

"I think you should stay here tonight. Let the doctors take care of you."

I wish he would yell, and rail at me, but he doesn't say anything more; he just watches me, stricken. I've rendered him powerless—a feeling that scares him more than anything in the world. I reach out and caress his cheek—I'm frustrated with myself for sending mixed signals, but I can't help it. He leans into my touch.

_I'm sorry_, I want to say. _I love you_, I want to say. But instead, I settle for:

"Try to get some sleep. You'll feel better in the morning, I promise," I assure him, before retreating into the hall. I have to get out of here, have to get away before he sees me cry. If I show a single moment of indecision, he'll figure out how to pull the ground out from under me again. Because that's what he does.

"I doubt it!" he calls after me, and it's shocking how much anger and bitterness he manages to inject into those three words.

I could respond, but I don't; I know he'll be able to hear the truth in my voice.

Besides, I know how much he likes to have the last word.


	7. In Recovery

**7. In Recovery**

A week later, Tony fails to show up at an appointment he wasn't even interested in, then yells at me because he missed it. He's even more fractious than usual lately, which is saying something. I point out that I not only set his alarm clock and asked JARVIS to remind him, I laid out a suit for him to wear. I ask, archly, if he's going to need me to start dressing him in the mornings. Instead of making his usual vulgar comment, he just shrugs and asks me to reschedule, then mumbles something about recalibrating his flight stabilizers and disappears down the stairs. We don't speak for the rest of the day.

* * *

Two weeks later, Happy picks me up after work (in his own car, for once) and takes me to a ball game. I wear my favourite jeans, which haven't seen the light of day in months. Even in the late-afternoon sun, I manage to get a little burnt, particularly the bridge of my nose. Happy is so scandalized about my not owning a ball cap that he actually buys me one while he's getting each of us a hot dog and a beer. During the seventh inning stretch, he stretches his arm, dropping it around the back of my seat. He's a traditionalist, apparently.

Later that evening, when he tries to kiss me goodnight, he's momentarily thwarted by the stiff brim of my newly-acquired, MLB-sanctioned headgear. We do get it right, eventually, and… it's not bad.

* * *

Three weeks later, JARVIS tells me that Mr. Stark is down in the workshop, but that he's asked me to attend to something in the bedroom. "Something" turns out to be a nude, deeply tanned brunette of Amazonian proportions, sprawled face-down across his bed. She has a tramp stamp. She snores. Even from this angle, I can tell her breasts are fake. The entire room reeks of booze and sweat and cigarette smoke. I peel her panties off the tile floor with a plastic bag over my hand.

It's been a while, but the girl who answers the phone at the one-hour dry cleaner's still remembers my voice. She tells me, sympathetically, that it sounds like I'm getting a cold.

* * *

A month later, at the end of a very long day, Tony and I climb into the back of the Bentley. Our plan for the evening involves participating in an overseas teleconference during the drive back to the house, where we will complete the monthly review of Tony's expenses, hopefully without incident. He's fully recuperated from his disastrous little experiment; just the other day, he was pulling people out of a mudslide in Peru, and was home in time for breakfast.

Our friendship is in recovery, too—we're not quite as playful or as intimate as we were, but we've allowed the events of that night to settle, and gradually become layered over by routine.

While Tony pours himself a drink and reviews the talking points I've just handed him, I'm leaning over the seat, relaying some instructions to Happy. We've been on two more dates at this point—the best we could manage with our opposing and increasingly hectic schedules. Things between us are easy, pleasant, comfortable. Safe.

Completely absorbed in what I'm saying, I absently touch Happy's shoulder. I don't even realize I'm doing it until he reaches up and brushes my fingers with his. He smiles at me, and is clearly puzzled when I don't smile back. When I freeze, feeling myself flush—that all-too-familiar sensation of being under a very hot spotlight.

Beside me, a glass of scotch spontaneously fractures in Tony's hand.

He plays it off—kidding about not knowing his own strength since he started hitting the weights; shotgunning the whiskey, and pitching the cracked glass out the open window before it shatters entirely—but a small muscle in his jaw is steadily ticking. He refuses to meet my eyes.

The timing of the two events could be purely coincidental.

But I doubt it.


End file.
